


Love Potions

by 221b_hound



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Romance, Slash, nakedness but not actual sex, skin writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-12
Updated: 2012-06-12
Packaged: 2017-11-07 13:43:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/431815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another shamelessly sentimental fic, written in response to this prompt:</p><p>Snuggly, lazy Sherlock and John, with Sherlock finger-writing anything from the latest crime scene to love poetry on John's back/arm/chest/anywhere. Just give me Sunday morning sunlight and domesticity!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Potions

John wakes up to the sensation of lazy circles being traced on his bare belly. He murmurs a little, contented, feeling the warmth of sun spilling across his arms and chest. He’s ensconced in the heated crook of Sherlock’s body, slotted between long, pale legs, his head pillowed on a slender, strong torso. They never did make it off the sofa, last night. In his sleep haze, John feels a bit smug about that.

The pattern traced on his belly changes. The elegant finger lifts and drops, slides up John’s sternum, halts at the base of his throat. John, still half asleep, makes a little noise, protesting the loss of movement.

Sherlock’s hand goes back to the start and begins the pattern again.

On the third time through the pattern, John giggles and bats at the hand. “Tickles.”

“Pay attention, John,” says Sherlock.

John, ever receptive to the whims of Sherlock Holmes, attempts to follow instructions.

“‘S a formula,” John decides after the fourth time.

“Good. For what?”

John has woken up more, but is still happily docile in Sherlock’s embrace. Now that he knows the kind of thing he’s looking for – he recognised a letter and a number in there – he’s trying to keep track.

Next time through, despite the distraction of Sherlock’s fingers on his nerve endings, he has it. “Chemical formula for serotonin. Why are you writing…?”

“Shh. This one.” Sherlock runs his left hand down John’s left arm, takes his hand, holds John’s arm up and, with his right index finger, traces a new pattern from bicep to palm. John’s mostly awake now, and he’s discerned the formula after Sherlock has written it three times, but he lets him write it twice more, because he likes how it feels.

“Dopamine,” he says at last, because Sherlock knows that he knows already, and has jabbed him in the ribs in admonishment. A laugh escapes him and he feels Sherlock’s breath in a warm, happy puff against his neck.

“Stay alert. This one’s tricky.” Sherlock’s long arm reaches down, and the delicate finger begins the new formula on John’s thigh. It continues to his hip, around the curve of his backside then around his waist again, over his stomach (the muscles flutter there, because really, it still tickles) then over his chest, first the right side, then the left, skirting the less sensitive scar tissue. Then Sherlock places his hand over the scar, a brief caress.

John lost track of the actual symbols at about the time Sherlock’s was tracing over his hip, but he knows already what it was, because he knows the connection between the other two. He knows that Sherlock knows he knows, but Sherlock is nothing if not a completist, when he’s following a line of thought, so he finished writing it anyway.

“Oxytocin,” John smiles up at Sherlock, who is looking down at him with an expectant air. “There’s also vasopressin and adrenalin.” Five of the key brain chemicals related to love and relationships. Really, Sherlock always finds the most entertaining ways to say “I love you” that don’t actually involve the English language. It’s sort of annoying and wholly endearing, even when some of his more outré expressions of affection do permanent damage to the furnishings and fixtures.

Sherlock murmurs approval of the answer, nuzzles John’s hair, then raises his hand to trace the edges of John’s ears. 

John stills Sherlock’s hand with his own. He reaches up with the other and draws a simple pattern on Sherlock’s wrist.

“That’s not very difficult, John.”

“Too sleepy for complex,” John says, “But you will agree that it’s an anatomically correct heart.”

“I will agree to that, yes. I’d be concerned about your medical knowledge if it wasn’t.”

“How’s this?” John lets his hand drop onto Sherlock’s thigh and he draws two pictures. He draws the pictures four times before Sherlock huffs in mild irritation.

“You’re really not a very good artist.”

“Except for anatomically correct hearts.”

“No. Those are quite good.”

A teapot and cup shouldn’t have been so difficult. Perhaps it had been unfairly distracting of him to be stroking Sherlock’s hip and thigh with his other hand the same time.

“Let me try again.” John wriggles around until he and Sherlock are chest to chest. He stretches for a langorous kiss and writes a simple letter T over Sherlock’s left pectoral muscle, making sure the stem and the crossbar both trace over the nipple. Because John is just as likely to use the medium of tea as anything else to say the things that Sherlock says with chemical formulas traced on skin in morning sunlight.

“And biscuits,” says Sherlock, “Those chocolate ones you like.”

But John is already half way back to sleep, drowsy with sunlight and feel-good chemicals and the contentment of being snuggled against his human pillow.

Sherlock sighs, because he really would like a cup of tea, but he is too lazy to move, not desperate enough for tea, and too fond of the heavy weight on him to push John off.

But since he’s awake, and John’s back seems such a suitable surface for it, Sherlock traces notes of violin music across beloved skin, and plays concertos in his head, and contents himself to wait.


End file.
